


Smoke Screen

by TheManxomeFoe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Smoking, Smoking Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManxomeFoe/pseuds/TheManxomeFoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could clearly smell the smoke lingering on John's clothing. He positively reeked of it. I was intoxicated, enraptured even, by the heavy aroma of cigarettes and cheap alcohol permeating the air around him—so heavy I could feel it on my fingertips. How is it that the reliable, dependable John Watson came to be a smoker?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Screen

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, America! I'm sorry this fanfic is all I could give you.
> 
> I assume everyone knows what they're getting into, so I'll skip the "don't like, don't read" nonsense.

The lull between cases was always unbearable. A genius of my calibre requires continuous stimulation to remain sharp. The alternative: my mind stagnates, growing increasingly dull and sluggish, until the magnitude of my intellect is indistinguishable from those of the unthinking masses.

Smoking was an outlet for my restless energies- a distraction from the oppressive nothing happening around me.

While I sought to quit at times in the past, John truly pushed me to abandon the poisonous habit for my own sake. Ordinarily, I would not deign to heed the advice of any person, but he was somewhat special.

Doctor John Watson, my flatmate of over a year, was one of the few people whose opinions I actually valued. He was more intelligent than most- though nowhere near my own capabilities- and fiercely loyal. He had proven to be a dedicated partner in my endeavours, even to the detriment of his safety and relationships. My dearest colleague and a friend if I ever had one.

Since the confrontation with Moriarty I had observed John's behaviour with great interest, curious about his reactions- even the unconscious ones- after so perilous a situation. A newfound compulsion to fasten the lock of our door notwithstanding, he conducted himself as more or less the same as he had before the incident.

This made his decision to take up smoking further perplexing.

It arose as if from nowhere- or at least, nowhere I could fathom. He simply walked into the flat in his old beige jumper, smelling musty and stale, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth like nothing was different. It isn't as if I could ask: that would completely undercut my deductive capabilities- the likes of which seem to fail me in this case.

Coincidentally, that was the very day I began to dream of him.

The dreams were hazy at first. I awoke befuddled and disoriented, the faintest ghost image of John in my still unfocused eyesight, his soft voice floating in my ear, and the distinct burn of cigarette smoke on my lips and on my nose. The vividness of my dreams escalated rapidly, and in a few weeks' time with only the greatest scrutiny could I discern real John from dream John, assuming they were different at all.

He was horrendously smashed on the day our relationship became much more complicated, and I knew so instantly when he stumbled into the flat, making all sorts of noise and calling to me with exaggerated speech. Ordinarily, John returns from the pub deflated and dejected, needing to be reassured and coddled. However, this time he was positively giddy.

I was displeased, of course, by his disruption. That morning I had so cleverly convinced Molly to relinquish some "spare" organs from the morgue, and I was testing the effects that a new chemical compound of my own invention would have upon them. I was deep in thought, pondering the results of my experimentation, until John plopped into his chair across from me and all but demanded my focus.

"Sherlock!" John cried jovially. "Sherlock, I got her digits!"

I rolled my eyes.

"Who's digits?"

"You know, the girl's. The pretty one with the blue eyes."

"Oh, how wonderful, John! Your ability to manipulate women into relinquishing their personal information is nothing short of astounding."

He sighed. "Alright, fine. You don't care."

"Whatever gave you that impression?"

"Hey! I know you're being sarcastic," John pouted. "I'm not as stupid as everyone seems to think."

"Of course not, John. You truly are the epitome of intelligence."

"Bugger off, you dick." John pouted. He pointedly turned himself away from me, and brought his knees up to his chest. I sighed, recognizing the signs of depression John typically exhibited after one of his occasional pub crawls. I was a tad harsh, I supposed.

"Look, John… I didn't mean…"

He snapped, "Yes you did."

Apologizing, I found, was not often as simple as the apology itself.

"John…?"

"I'm going to bed," John huffed, before he stomped up the staircase to his bedroom.

Initially, I sought to ignore his spectacle, and instead, return to my contemplation. However, my efforts to refocus myself were in vain: John's unstable emotional display kept slipping into his mind, causing my stomach to lurch distressingly as a manifestation of the feeling I could only assume was guilt.

Begrudgingly, I climbed the staircase that lead to John's bedroom, steps creaking beneath my feet.

I opened his door slowly. Poking my head inside, I asked: "John?" The room was dark, the only illumination drawn from the moonlight pouring through the open window. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the dimness, and I could not discern any of his features, save a silhouette slouched upon the mattress.

His reply was not immediate, but he sat up straight, albeit groggily, and queried: "Sherlock…?"

I decided this was enough a response to warrant entry. So I stepped inside cautiously, closing the door behind myself in such a way so as not to make a sound.

On his bed, John blearily rubbed his eyes. "What is it, Sherlock?" He seemed irritated.

"I just wanted…. to apologize for acting so inconsiderate."

"Apologize?" John questioned as if he could not comprehend my meaning. "You want to apologize… Dear God, Sherlock, what is the matter? Is something terribly wrong?"

I was baffled by his reaction. Was it truly so unbelievable that I would ask for forgiveness?

"No. Nothing is wrong, but…:"

"Sit down, Sherlock," he said, patting a space on the mattress beside him.

I took the seat, aiming to explain myself. However, any words I might have said escaped me. In such close proximity to John, I could clearly smell the smoke lingering on his clothing. He positively reeked of it. I was intoxicated, enraptured even, by the heavy aroma of cigarettes and cheap alcohol permeating the air around him—so heavy I could feel it on my fingertips- and by the quizzical yet oddly intent glint in his grey-blue eyes, and by the milky white glow of his skin in the moonlit darkness.

It was odd that the mere scent of cigarettes could affect me so strongly.

"What?" John asked, once again disturbing my musings. "What is it?"

"It's, umm…" I said while continuing to stare. "It's nothing. Nothing at all."

He reached out and placed a hand upon my shoulder. My whole body stiffened. "Sherlock, you are really worrying me."

I did not—could not respond. John appeared exasperated. "Look, I'm completely smashed right now, and I want to know what's going on," he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a cigarette packet. He removed one and held it in his lips as he lit it. "But if this could wait until morning, Sherlock, that would be great…." He exhaled a puff of smoke, and held the cigarette in-between his fingers.

As if possessed by some outside force, I leaned in and kissed him.

He was shocked, at first. He was stiff and rigid, and when I moved away his eyes betrayed his feelings: slowly and confusedly processing my actions.

Perhaps, it was the alcohol at work, for John grinned a dull grey smile, made more brilliant by the very cancerous habit that tarnished it. I traced the ridges of John's teeth slowly with my fingertip, and relished how the grit from the cigarette collected on my skin.

An unmistakable warmth pooled near my lower abdomen.

I pressed my lips to his again and again and again, and our kissing grew more passionate. Whenever we had to separate to catch our breath, John would slip in a few words, here and there. "Just so you know…" he spoke between frenzied kisses, "I'm not actually gay." The words were irrelevant; I was concentrating on slipping my tongue down his throat. I shivered: the acrid taste of cigarette on my tongue. The taste of John's cigarette on my tongue.

John.

My body was instantly aroused. Never in my life had I done anything like this, or felt anything like this.

I could feel my mind racing. My heart was thundering in my ears, or was it John's heart (did it even matter?)

John.

John matters, lying beneath me on the settee as I ponder absent-mindedly as to how he got there. I suppose the how and the why are irrelevant when up against the now.

In a rush, I unzipped his trousers, savouring his sharp gasp for a mere moment before I curled by hand around his cock. He reciprocated, slipping his clammy hands underneath the cotton fabric of my shirt, not-so-delicately tracing the outline of my ribs. He stroked my nipples gently.

"Take this off," he commanded in whisper, and I eagerly complied.

Soon all of our clothes were gone, scattered across the mattress and the floor, evidently thrown haphazardly by two people very absorbed in their activities.

I kissed him and rubbed him and licked him until the traces of everything but me were erased from his flesh. His mind too, for I possessed the strangest desire to be the only thing in his thoughts, for him to forget all about the bothersome girl with the blue eyes.

I imagine I was rather successful in that endeavour, evidenced by John's frequent shouts of "Sherlock! Sherlock!"

We fell into a rhythm of sorts: our pelvises thrusting together—perfectly-timed, yet wild all the same.

We peaked in a dizzying rush of unabashed pleasure, climactically finishing our heated display. John came first. Loudly. I assume John had lost control of his speech, because he moaned and groaned and cried out deafeningly. He began to beg as well, which I found most curious as I had no idea for what he pleaded. I doubt he did either. The fragmented phrases burst from his mouth thoughtlessly: "Please! Please! Oh God, Please!"

After, he had gone quiet; I felt a warm, sticky wetness on my thighs. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and honestly a bit off-putting, although in my heightened state I could hardly bring myself to care.

He was looking up at me, still grinning. "God, I feel like a teenager again." He giggled.

He grabbed my hips and moved me back and forth against him until I also found my release.

Flush against him, cheek to cheek; I felt the sweat on his brow and the thundering rhythm of his heart as if they were my own. Unthinkingly, I sighed in contentment. John shifted as if turning himself away from me.

Worried that I had violated some post-coital behavioural expectation, I moved to leave. However, he only held me tighter.

"Don't go now," John whinged. "I've waited so long for this. Don't spoil it!"

Exhausted from our intimacy, I acquiesced. I leaned down and gave him one last kiss. The residual taste of cigarette mostly gone, somehow the simple, pure gesture was considerably more enrapturing. In John's embrace, I steadily drifted into a peaceful torpor.

I dreamt of John that night, and when I awoke to find him grinning over me, I realized that I knew fondness, caring, even love, more closely than I had believed.

I spied the pack of cigarettes, when I woke, lying but an arm's length from me on the bed. Briefly, I fancied taking one, yet John stirred a bit in his torpor as if he somehow knew the trail of my thoughts. Instead, I kissed him gently on his cheek. I suppose I have grown rather sentimental wherever John is concerned.

"Goodnight John."

I picked up the cigarettes and tossed them in the bin.

He really ought to quit.

**Author's Note:**

> What is this even? I didn't edit it very well so... gosh guys I'm sorry. I just wanted to post something on Murica Day.
> 
> Inspiration arose from thorough analysis of the beginning of The Hound of Baskerville with one of my shippy friends. While the line "I need some, get me some" is clearly about cigarettes, she liked the idea that Sherlock was referring to something else entirely, and admittedly, so did I.
> 
> Also the notion that John would be incredibly loud in the bedroom is really amusing to me. We should all band together to make it canon.
> 
> Check out my new tumblr: cuddleswithmerkel(.)tumblr(.)com , or my other works on fanfiction(.)net under TheManxomeFoe
> 
> I swear I'm going to figure this tumblr thing out. Even if it kills me (which it probably will).


End file.
